Hearts and Happiness
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Gil Grissom is trying to make a decision, following "Young Man with a Horn" episode, playing poker and hearing a secret, sad story from two lovers.


_A/N: A short story of Grissom's change of heart in his desire to change his life! Complete in one post!_

**Hearts and Happiness**

Gil Grissom had long ago decided he would always be a loner. His mother had lived most of her life in the soundless world of the deaf and, at some time, he had learned to join and enjoy her solitary way of life. Just a few years ago, when he was losing his hearing, he had been more frightened of the dependency it would bring than anything else.

He raked hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. He sought solitude no longer. For weeks he had worked long hours, occasionally sleeping at his desk when Catherine was not around to make him leave. He closed his eyes and tried to dismiss the imagines that appeared, tried to shut out the words he heard, tried to forget the last conversation he had with Sara, the sadness in her face. And when he succeeded, his dreams were of Warrick—pulling him from the car, unable to stop the blood gurgling from his mouth as he tried to speak.

Grissom's fingers massaged his eyes. One nightmare followed another when he did sleep. He checked his watch. He could return to the lab; there was always work.

He glanced at his dog, Hank, stretched across the bed. Hank had refused to sleep on the bed for weeks after Sara left, hesitating even when Grissom whistled and tapped the bed. Yet when she returned, the dog immediately jumped onto the bed, snuggled against her and watched Grissom with tranquil eyes, giving obvious approval of her return. Now, the dog continued to cast questioning eyes at Grissom—every time the phone rang, every time the door opened—as if he was guarding Sara's spirit.

Stretching beside the dog, he placed a hand across his eyes. Sleep would not come. The last time he slept—Heather's, he remembered. She had talked, her voice and words so similar to Sara's that he could pretend all was well, that he had disguised his irritation and his selfish depression when she had been so vulnerable, when she had repeated her request, not for the first time, for a vacation, a break from his work.

He got up; there was no reason to remain in bed fighting to sleep. He picked up the dog's lease and jingled the clip. Why should the dog get to sleep if he could not? A walk would work for both—and get them donuts a few blocks away.

…A dead girl had been found near the closed, abandoned Le Chateau Rouge casino. A bullet matched one from a long-ago case—the murder of the owner resulting in the closing of the casino. Greg knew the detailed history and provided a much more colorful narration than the black and white pages of the case file. Grissom looked at the fingerprint he had just lifted from the snakeskin wallet. Sometimes working with the mundane intricacies of crime resulted in surprises—there was no way the original fingerprint had ever been on an alligator wallet. He checked his watch. He knew where to find more information.

No one questioned his disappearance. Since Warrick died, they had been moving in worlds of their own—Grissom could not remember the last time they ate together. Yes, he thought, he did remember; they all remembered.

He found a parking space near the private club; looking around he knew it would be a busy night. This was an exclusive club in Vegas; most people never knew it existed by passing along the street. Certainly, no one would expect book lined walls behind the door in the alley or the expensively furnished bar and gaming tables at the end of the hall. Grissom had received an invitation to come here years ago after playing poker in a dozen places, finding plenty of tourists to fill a table. Early one morning he had been given this address by Sheriff Claude Montgomery.

The door was opened for him. "Grissom," said the doorman.

A pretty waitress smiled at him "Where on earth have you been, stranger?" The girl asked.

"Hey, Nicole."

How long had it been since he entered the place, he asked himself. Two years, perhaps longer. He smiled. When Sara moved in, when they were spending their days off together, he had no need for the game or this room filled with old men. Sara—dear God, he missed her in places she had never been.

The old guys at the table greeted him as a friendly participant in their weekly game.

"Hey, look who's here!" Grissom heard.

"Well, I'll be damn, you're two years late. George, deal him in." The retired sheriff sat with his back to the wall.

Grissom shook his head, saying, "Can't, I'm working."

The sheriff was clearly in charge of the table. "What you doing here?" He asked.

"Hoping to talk to you about Le Chateau Rouge."

A quiet murmur floated among the players.

Sheriff Montgomery said, "One hand, you win and I'll talk."

Cards were dealt and Grissom looked at his cards. Talk centered around old Vegas, the integrated casino, the people who crowded its tables, and performed on stage. Quickly, he and the sheriff were the only ones left in the game. When he played the four of hearts card, he knew he had won the game. But Montgomery refused to explain or talk about the fifty year old murder.

"Wilson signed a confession!" the sheriff said. "With all the crime in Vegas, you have time to poke around my old cases," he turned to leave. "Good to see you, son."

Frustration added to his irritation. He made a phone call before heading to the hospital. Perhaps, the old man, Harry Bastille would talk to him, his mind cleared with food and fluids. His phone call would add another twist to whatever Mr. Bastille had to say. Grissom was not sure what he had expected, but he heard another story—back then a white woman could get away with murder, but she could not love a black man.

By accident or design, he and Catherine ate dinner together near Fremont Street and afterwards walked the length of the night show. He lied when she asked if he still played poker; he was thinking about the cards that were played, the old man's comment about happiness.

Later, his shoes dropped to the floor as he stretched across his bed—its comfort meaning little when what he desired was human comfort. He no longer had the need to put shoes or clothes away—Sara had tripped over them so often that he had learned to kick them underneath the bed or a chair. She wasn't here to stumble and complain. He smiled; she didn't complain. She would pick one up and throw it in his direction, not once hitting him.

The four of hearts—the card he played to win. Sara was his heart. He had known this for years; too proud, too stubborn to admit it. Part of my soul—he wanted to smile, he wanted to take her hand, put his lips to hers. He wanted sweet dreams of her as she lay beside him. Clearly, he could see their bodies moving together; he could hear her beating heart.

He lay in his bed, grateful for his discomfort, because it allowed him to rethink the night's events. Here in the artificial darkness of his bedroom, he could think of Sara without distraction. He could see her smile, a thoughtful line across her forehead. The shadows of light played across the room as he tried to sleep while his mind worked—indecision, uncertainty kept him from rest.

Decisions—for years he had avoided making a decision when it came to Sara. He frowned as he remembered the day she volunteered to act as victim for the FBI. His anger had flamed as she calmly asked him to wish her luck.

When the explosion occurred in the lab, his work—his lab destroyed—Greg hospitalized, and sweet, caring Sara sitting on the curb. Injured, her hand bleeding, looking lost, forgotten, and so very vulnerable—he had passed her off to someone else; he had refused her invitation to dinner because he could not make a decision. He compartmentalized his feelings for her, closed the door on any indication of developing a personal relationship.

He would never forget finding the dead girl who looked like Sara—Debbie Marlin. Fatigue, frustration, his own emotions caused him to say words to Dr. Lurie he would never say again. Months later, when she had opened her private life to him as he had demanded an explanation for her anger, when her tears had dried, and he ordered food and they had walked in the sun, she had tried to apologize.

"I have to thank you—I am grateful," she said.

His heart twisted into a knot as he looked at her soft brown eyes, knowing how much pain it caused her to speak of what had occurred between them. She had taken a deep breath. He stopped walking as he reached for her hand.

"Sara," he said, trying to think of something to say. "Sara—I don't know how—I need to know—how to care for you?"

Her response came from quivering lips; she struggled to breathe as her eyes filled with tears. He whispered her name—twice—before folding hands around hers, bringing her palm to his lips, he kissed one, then the other before placing both against his chest, above his beating heart. They continued their walk, neither saying a word until the sidewalk ended at a construction site. When they stopped, both laughed, kissed as he held her face between his hands, and turned around, talking as they walked—how he had struggled to come to terms with what he felt, her unwavering trust and hope.

At her door, he stopped. "Sara, I have been a selfish person all of my life. But you—you alone have shown me how much I am missing. You have my heart, Sara." He did not go inside with her but returned to work.

When Adam Trent nearly killed her, he resolved to change. He talked to her every day, gradually gaining her confidence in building a relationship—a life together. By her own plan, he was invited into her bedroom early one morning. It was a feminine room, orderly and neat without ruffles and frills—a Sara room, he thought. He smiled as he remembered.

They had worked a difficult case. She had asked if he would like to eat at her place, a recent development in their relationship—eating, talking, and sometimes sleeping on her sofa, but never more than that before he left. When she asked, "Would you stay?" He had recognized her question as a step forward. He would never forget the delicate scent of Sara Sidle after a shower or the feel of her cool skin on his fingertips.

That night, they had learned much about intimacy, about desire, about an overwhelming passion, about making love to the person who, each believed, was on this earth at this time to complete their life. Every touch seemed more exhilarating than the previous one and a great coiling tension unleashed from the core of his body as he felt her muscles tightened around him.

They had been so careful at work, so much in love, so playful, so satisfied with life. He was the one who was careless, who brought Natalie into their private cocoon of happiness; his fault that Sara's fragile emotional world had crashed. Yet, she still loved him, finding happiness again, coming to him when he could not go to her. Until the last time—when Warrick was killed and she stayed with him until she could no longer breathe in the hot, desert air, overcome with the sadness of an old case, knowing she was slipping backward into an abyss of darkness, and devastating depression. She made plans to leave, begging him to go with her, to take a trip, to leave Vegas, at least for a while. He refused, saying words he regretted as soon as they were out of his mouth. Then, weeks later, he heard those same words repeated by Sara.

He had been depressed, distressed, and withdrawn for weeks. He was not happy; tonight he had heard the old man's words—"the last place I was happy."

His laugh in the silent bedroom caused Hank to open his eyes. Grissom sat up swinging his feet to the floor. "You love her, you fool!" he whispered so quietly that he could not hear his own words. He had tormented himself for months, denied his feelings even as he wanted her by his side. His life would never be the same. Nothing would take her place—not work, not a hobby, not long hours of insignificant trivia. Everything in his life meant nothing if he could not be with Sara. It was not a place that made him happy, it was a person.

Quickly, he clicked on his email account and brought up the last message from Sara—the video—but this morning he did not want to hear her words. Instead, he typed one sentence "I'm not ready to say goodbye" and hit 'send'.

…His first sight of her left him speechless. Her back—a body he would recognize anywhere in the world—was poised in a familiar stance, a camera to her face. He stepped forward. Sunlight dappled her hair, her shoulders. He must have made some noise because she turned. Her eyes, her mouth, her chin trembled slightly before a smile appeared. The weight across his own shoulders lifted. A breeze cooled his back as he moved forward. She came to him, smiling, happiness in her eyes. His heart swelled, his fingers, his hands, his arms gathered her to him. The pain of the past—her pain as well as his—the rejection, the self-pity, the loneliness, was gone in seconds. Trust, love, devotion, unyielding from this woman, was where his heart and happiness belonged.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! We will return with a new, longer story in 5-6 weeks! _


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